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(Where live the innocent as far from cares
There dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath, And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, Unsleeping SILEN ce guards, worn out with fear Lest haply escaping on some treacherous blast The fateful word let slip the Elements And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her, Armed with Torngarsuck's" power, the Spirit of Good, Forces to unchain the foodful progeny Of the Ocean stream.—Wild phantasies! yet wise, On the victorious goodness of high God
* They call the Good Spirit Torngarsuck. The other
great but malignant spirit is a nameless Female: she dwells under the sea in a great house, where she can detain in captivity all the animals of the ocean by her magic power. When a dearth befalls the Greenlanders, an Angekok or magician must undertake a journey thither. He passes through the kingdom of souls, over an horrible abyss into the Palace of this phantom, and by his enchantments causes the captive creatures
to ascend directly to the surface of the ocean. See CRAN 1z' Hist. of Greenland, vol. i. 206.
Teaching Reliance, and Medicinal Hope,
If there be Beings of higher class than Man, I deem no nobler province they possess, Than by disposal of apt circumstance To rear up Kingdoms: and the deeds they prompt, Distinguishing from mortal agency, They chuse their human ministers from such states As still the Epic Song half fears to name, Repelled from all the Minstrelsies that strike The Palace-Roof and sooth the Monarch's pride.
And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our Faith) Held commune with that warrior-maid of France Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days, With Wisdom, Mother of retired Thoughts, Her soul had dwelt; and she was quick to mark The good and evil thing, in human lore Undisciplined. For lowly was her Birth, And Heaven had doomed her early years to Toil That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself Unfeared by Fellow-natures, she might wait
On the poor Labouring man with kindly looks,
So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's Form, Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad, Her flexile eye-brows wildly haired and low, And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed, Spake more than Woman's Thought; and all her face Was moulded to such Features as declared That Pity there had oft and strongly worked, And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien,
And like an haughty Huntress of the woods
"Twas the cold season when the Rustic's eye From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints And clouds slow-varying their huge imagery; When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid Had left her pallet ere one beam of day Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft, With dim inexplicable sympathies Disquieting the Heart, shapes out Man's course To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top The Pilgrim-Man, who long since eve had watched The alien shine of unconcerning Stars, Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights Seen in Neufchatel's vale; now slopes adown The winding sheep-track valeward: when, behold
In the first entrance of the level road
Mutely questioning, The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. He, his head feebly turning, on the group